“I wasn’t really thinking about pain.”
“Nevertheless,” she says. “Nevertheless. Pain is the constant for all of us. Some can bear it and others cannot. Some can face this on their own terms and others need artificial means of sustention. There is nothing to be done about this.”
“I don’t need artificial means,” I say. “I have elected.”
“Surely,” she says. “Surely.”
And they are not artificial, I want to add; the experiences under the hypnotics are as real, as personally viable, as much the blocks of personality formulation as anything which this confused and dim woman can offer, as anything which has passed between us. But that would only lead to another of our arguments and I feel empty of that need now. Deep below we can hear the uneven cries of the simulacrum animals let out at last for the nighttime zoo, the intermingled roars of tigers.
“Has it made any difference?” she says. “Any of it?”
“Any of what? I don’t understand.”
“The treatments. Your treatments.”
Tantalizingly, I find myself on the verge of a comment which will anneal everything, but it slips away from me as if so often the case, and I say, “Of course they have made a difference.”
“What have you gained?”
“Pardonne? Pardonnez moi?”
“Don’t be obscure on me,” she says. “That will get you nowhere. Tell me the truth.”
I shrug. My habit of lapsing into weak French under stress is an old disability; nonetheless I find it difficult to handle. Most have been more understanding than Edna. “I don’t know,” I say. “I think so.”
“I know. It’s done nothing at all.”
“Let’s go inside now,” I say. “It’s beginning to chill here.”
“You are exactly the same as you were. Only more withdrawn, more stupid. These treatments are supposed to heal?”
“No. Merely broaden. Healing comes from within.”
“Broaden! You understand less than ever.”
I put a hand to my face, feel the little webbing where years from now deep lines will be. “Let’s go inside,” I say again. “There’s nothing more
“Why don’t you face the truth” These treatments are not meant to help you; they are meant to make you more stupid so that you won’t cause any trouble.”
I move away from her. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “None of it matters. It is of no substance whatsoever. Why do you care for it to be otherwise?”
There is nothing for her to do but to follow me into the funnel. She would argue in position but my withdrawal has offered the most devastating answer of all: I simply do not care. The attitude is not simulated: on the most basic level I refuse to interact.
“You are a fool,” she says, crowding against me for the plunge. “You do not understand what they are doing to you. You” simply don’t care.”
“Quite right,” I say. “Quite right. Absolutely. Not at all. That is the point now, isn’t it?”
The light ceases and we plunge.
* * * *
I am in an ashram surrounded by incense and the dull outlines of those who must be my followers. Clumped in the darkness they listen to me chant. It is a mantra which I appear to be singing in a high, cracked chant; it resembles the chanting of the Lubavitchers of Bruck Linn, although far more regularized in the vocal line, and limited in sound. Om or ay or eeh, the sounds are interchangeable and I am quite willing to accept the flow of it, not rationalize, not attempt to control those sounds but rather to let them issue according to my mood. It is peaceful and I am deeply locked within myself; the soft breathing of my followers lending resonance to the syllables which indeed seem to assume a more profound meaning, but at a certain point there is a commotion and the sound of doors crashing and then in the strophes of light I can see that the room has been invaded by what appear to be numerous members of the opposition. They are wearing their dull attack uniforms, even this if nothing else is perceptible in the light and from the glint of weaponry I can see that this is very serious. They move with an awful tread into the room, half a dozen of them, and then the portable incandescence is turned on and we are pinned there in frieze.
I know that it is going to be very bad; the acts of 2013 specifically proscribed exactly what is going on here and yet five years later the pogroms have dwindled to harassment, random isolated incursions. I did not think that in this abandoned church in the burned-out core of the devastated city they would ever move upon me, and yet it seems now that my luck has suddenly, convulsively run out, as I always knew that it would. Surely in some corner of the heart I must have known this; the om must have always been informed by doom; and yet it is one thing to consider demolition in a corner of the heart and another, quite another, to live it. Ahbdul, one of them says pointing, his finger enormous, dazzling, and as I lift my eyes to it I feel myself subsiding in the wickers of light, Ahbdul, you are in violation of the codes and you have brought woe to all.
In a moment, in one moment, they will plunge toward me. I know how it goes then, what will happen; they will strike at me with their weapons and bring me to a most painful position; they will obliterate consciousness and cause bloodstains; not of the least importance they will humiliate me before my small congregation, which has already witnessed enough humiliation, thank you very much, otherwise why would they have gathered here? And yet I can tolerate all of that, I suppose. I have dreamed worse, not to say suffered many privations and indignities before opening this small, illegal subunit. In fact, none of this concerns me; what does, I must admit, is the fear that I will show weakness before my congregation. To be humiliated is one thing, but to show fear, beg for mercy, is quite another; I would hardly be able to deal with it. A religious man must put up a stiff front. A religious man whose cult is based upon the regular, monotonic articulation of ancient chants to seek for inner serenity can hardly be seen quivering and shrieking in front of those who have come for tranquility. if tranquility is all that I have to offer, I cannot give them pain. Thinking this, I resolve to be brave and draw myself to full stature or what there is left of it after all these years of controlled diet and deliberate physical mutation. “You will not prevail,” I say. “You cannot prevail against the force of the om,” and with a signal I indicate to my congregation that I wish to resume the chant, humiliate them by my own transcendence, but they do not attend. Indeed they do not attend at all, so eager do so many of them appear to search out any means of exit open to them. A small alley has been left open by the massed opposition leading to one of the doors, and in their unseemly haste to clear the hall they ignore me. Religious disposition, it would seem, is a function of boredom: give people something really necessary to face in their lives and religion can be ignored, all except for the fanatics who consider religion itself important, of course; but they are disaster-ridden. Like flies these little insights buzz about, gnawing and striking small pieces of psychic flesh while the hall is emptied, the opposition standing there looking at me bleakly, but I find as usual that this insight does me no good whatsoever. It can, indeed, be said merely to magnify my sense of helplessness. “Gentlemen,” I say, raising a hand, “this is a futile business. join me in a chant.” I kneel, my forehead near the floor, and begin to mumble, hoping that the intensity of this commitment will strike shame within them, convince them that they are dealing with someone so dangerously self-absorbed that all of their attacks would be futile, but even as I commence the syllables I am pulled to my feet by a man in a uniform which I do not recognize, obviously a latecomer to the room. He stares at me from a puffy, heart-shaped face and then raises his hand, strikes me skillfully across first one check and then the other. The collision of flesh is enormous; I feel as if I am spattering within. “Fool,” he says, “why have you done this?”
“Why do you care” Why are you asking?” He hits me again. No progression of the sacred blocks of personality; the levels of eminent reason have prepared me for this kind of pain. I realize that I
am crying. “Give me a response,” he says. “Don’t withdraw, don’t protest, don’t argue; it will lead only to more blows and eventually the same results. Simply answer questions and it will go much easier for both of us. Knowing all of the penalties, knowing of the responsibilities for your acts and what would happen to you if you were discovered, why did you nonetheless persist? Didn’t you understand? Didn’t you know what danger you brought not only upon yourself but the fools you seduced? Now they too will have to pay.”
He is choleric with rage, this man; his face seems to have inflated with blood and reason as he stands there and I begin to comprehend that he is suffering from more than situational stress. Looking at him I want to accentuate that sudden feeling of bonding, but there is every emotion but sympathy in that ruined face and suddenly he hits me again convulsively; this the most painful blow yet because it was not expected. I fall before him and begin to weep. It is not proper context for a martyr, but I never wanted it to be this way; I never imagined that there would be such blood in sacrifice. He puts one strong hand under an arm, drags me grunting to my feet, positions me in front of him as if I were a statue.
“Do you know what we’re going to have to do now?” he says. “We’re going to have to make an example of you, that’s all, we’re going to have to kill you. Why did you put us into this position?”
“I am not able to believe that you will do that,” I say. I am struggling for tranquility. “You wouldn’t kill me, not here in the temple?”
“This is not a temple. It is a dirty cluttered room and you are an old fool who imagines it to be a church.”
“Om,” I say. The word comes; I did not calculate. “Om. Eeeh. Ay.”
“You would fight the state regardless. If the state believed in om you would cry for freedom of choice. If the state were stateless you would wish to form institutions within. There is no hope for you people, none at all; you would be aberrants in any culture at any time and you cannot understand this. You want to be isolated, persecuted, to die. It has nothing to do with religion.”
“Eeh. Ay. Oooh. Alih. Om.”
“Enough,” he says, “enough of this,” and signals to the others at the rear; they come forward slowly, reluctantly, but with gathering speed at the approach, perhaps catching a whiff of death which comes from the syllables. “You wish a public death, you wish a martyrdom; then you will have it. Reports will be issued to all of the provinces. Icons will be constructed. Dispatches will even glorify. You will achieve everything that you were unable in life. But this will do you no good whatsoever.”
The fear is tightly controlled now. Truly, the syllables work. I would not have granted them such efficacy and yet what I have advised my congregants all of this time turns out to be true. They paste over the sickness with the sweet contaminations of courage, grant purchase upon terror, make it possible for the most ignorant and cowardly of men, which must be myself, to face annihilation with constant grace. “Om,” I say. Eeh. If it were to be done, then it must be done quickly.”
“Ali,” he says, “it is impossible. Nothing will be gained from this and yet you still will not face the truth. It would be so much easier if at least you would give up your bankrupt purchase, if you would understand that you are dying for no reason whatsoever and that it could have been no other way; it would make matters so much easier?”
“Ah,” I say. “Oh.”
“Ali, shit,” the man with the heart-shaped face says and gives a signal to one of the supporters, who closes upon me, a small man in uniform with a highly calibered weapon and puts its cold surfaces against my temple. His hand shakes, imperceptibly to the vision, but I can feel that quiver against the ridged veins. It is remarkable how I have gained in courage and detachment; just a few moments ago it would have seemed impossible. Yet here I am, apparently, prepared to face what I feared the most with implacable ardor. “Now,” the man says. “Do it now.”
There is a pause. Om resonates through me; it will be that with which I will die, carrying me directly to the outermost curved part of the universe. I close my eyes, waiting for transport, but it does not come, and after a while I understand that it will not. Therefore I open my eyes, reasonable passage seeming to have been denied me. The positions are the same except that the leader has moved away some paces and the man carrying the gun has closed his eyes.
“Shoot him, you fool,” the leader says. “Why haven’t you shot him?”
“I am having difficulty.”
“Kill him, you bastard.”
There is another long pause. I flutter my eyes. Om has receded. “I can’t,” the man with the gun says at last. “I can’t put him down, just like that. This isn’t what I was prepared to do. You didn’t say that it would be this way. You promised.”
“Ah, shit,” the heart-shaped man says again and comes toward us, breaks the connection with a swipe of his hand, knocking the gun arm down and the supporter goes scuttling away squealing. The leader looks at me with hatred, red-tinted veins alight. “You think you’ve proven something,” he says. “Well, you’ve proven absolutely nothing. Weakness is weakness. I will have to do it myself.”
I shrug. It is all that I can do to maintain my demeanor considering the exigencies but I have done it. Will; everything is will. “Om”, I murmur.
“Om,” he says, “om yourself,” and goes to the supporter; the supporter hands him the gun silently; the leader takes it in his left hand, flexes fingers, then puts it against my temple.”
“All right,” he says, “it could have been easier but instead it will be more complex. That does not matter, all that matters is consummation.”
“Consummate,” I say. “Om.”
“I don’t want to do this,” he says with the most immense kindness. “I hope you understand. It’s nothing personal; I have little against you; it’s just a matter of assignment, of social roles.” Unlike the others he seems to need to prepare himself for assassination through a massive act of disconnection. “Nothing personal,” he says mildly, “I really don’t want to.”
I shrug. “I don’t wait to die, particularly,” I say. “Still, I seem able to face it.” And this is the absolute truth. Calm percolates from the center of the corpus to the very brain stem; I seem awash in dispassion. Perhaps it is the knowledge that this is all a figment, that it is a dream and I will not die but awake again only to sterile enclosure and the busy hands of technicians. “Do it,” I say. “Do it.” Is this the secret of all the martyrs? That at the end, past flesh and panic, they knew when they would awaken and to what? Probably. On the other hand, maybe not. Like everything else it is difficult and complex. Still, it can be met with a reasonable amount of dignity, which is all that we can ask.
“Indeed,” he says sadly, “indeed,” and fires the gun into my temple killing me instantly and precipitating in one jagged bolt the great religious riots and revivals of the early twenties. And not one moment too soon, Allah and the rest of them be praised.
* * * *
Systematically I face examination in the cold room. It is a necessary part of the procedure. “The only hint of depersonalization other than at the end of the last segment,” I say calmly, “has been during the Jesus episodes. I seem unable to occupy it within the first person but feel a profound disassociative reaction in which I am witnessing him as if from the outside, without controlling the actions.”
The counselor nods. “Highly charged emotional material obviously,” he says. “Disassociative reaction is common in such cases. At some point in your life you must have had a Jesus fixation.”
“Not so,” I say. “in fact I did not know who he was until I was introduced through the texts.”
“Then it must have hit some responsive chord. I wouldn’t be unduly concerned about this. As you integrate into the persona it will fall away and you will begin to actively participate.”
“I feel no emotional reaction to the material at all. I mean, no more than to any of the others. It’s inexplicable to me.”
I look past him at the walls of the room which contain schematic portraits of the intervalley network. Interspersed are various documents certifying the authenticity of his observer’s role. The absence of anything more abstract disturbs me; previously it never occurred to me how deprived our institutions seem to be of artistic effect, but now it does; the hypnotics must be working. There is a clear hunger within me for something more than a schematic response to our condition. “Are you listening to me?” he says. “Did you hear my question.”
“I heard it.”
“I am going to administer a gross verbal reaction test now, if you will pay attention.”
“I assure you that is not necessary,” I say. “I am in excellent contact.”
“That is a judgment which we will make.”
“Must you?”
“I’m afraid so,” the counselor says. “We wish to guard against exactly that which you manifest, which strikes me as a rather hostile, detached response. We do not encourage this kind of side-effect, you see; we consider it a negative aspect of the treatment.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It is often necessary to terminate treatment in the face of such reactions, so I would take this very seriously.”
The Very Best of Barry N Malzberg Page 31